The clock strikes 7 and I convince myself that the only reason I am gloomy is because the day has almost folded, or rather unfolded, and nothing has happened yet. I check WhatsApp to complete the last prose of despair as I feel forgotten by the entire world. It’s quite within 5.5 inches of technology and 5.5 kms of reality.

The world is well connected alright. And I know everything about everyone and and nothing about anyone. Nostalgia is a sham. There isn’t a day when the looming existence of immense mediocrity doesn’t make morose. It almost convinces you of how deleterious sadness is.

It should be an intense debate — whether this is sadness or the illusion of it. But it probably is real sadness — I will tell you why. Because the attempt to work only for the sake of reward is an approach yelling for help. There is in fact a lot to enjoy for a 23 year old — alacrity, first love, a rainy day and a funny sitcom. Why should it be this difficult for one to feel happy? I don’t even remember the last time I felt happy for myself, let alone someone else. Tomorrow seems precarious everyday, when it should actually be filled with promise. It’s almost like you eat enough but you are never full. My weight isn’t decreasing but the hollow just keeps waxing exponentially. There are neither signs of settling down nor signs of taking off. The strange middle has become like the pool table in a bar — supposedly used for a good game but ends up being a festival of drunk lowsy misses.

There is nothing like enlightenment; being able to find the ordinary in the extraordinary.

I wonder what is more detrimental — dreaming the wrong dream or dreaming someone else’s dream or dreaming no dream at all and falling fast asleep. Someone please tell me that the last one ain’t that worrisome.

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